


Chaud

by sad_bi_cowboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Image Prompt, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Scar Worship, Touch-Starved Hannibal Lecter, descriptions of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_bi_cowboy/pseuds/sad_bi_cowboy
Summary: “Where were you, Sweetheart?” Will asks him after a while, moving his hands to link together over the raised scar tissue on his stomach and pressing a kiss into the pulse point in his neck, gently sucking at the delicate skin. Hannibal sighs into the touch.“The Atlantic,” he says.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 70
Collections: Hannibal Flash Fic Week 1





	Chaud

_ Drowning was not supposed to feel like this. Drowning was meant to burn your lungs before they became waterlogged and your vision faded out, the life was slowly leached out of you as you were starved for oxygen. He is quite sure that drowning does not make you feel fulfilled and sated - peaceful, his oxygen starved brain supplies.  _

_ The water is warm and still. He can make out the gentle shapes of flowers and lily pads at the surface, can feel the soft caress of the reeds around his legs and hands. A comforting presence accompanies him down, down, down until his vision is dark and the reeds are now arms wrapping around him and holding him close. They are warm, safe.  _

_ No. This is wrong.  _

_ The water turns ice cold and turbulent, and his lungs start to burn. The view above is hazy, clouded both by his rapidly tunneling vision and by what he knows is blood billowing out of the ragged wounds all over his body. Oddly enough, there is almost no pain, save for the biting, vicious cold of the waves. The arms are still around him, but they don’t hold so tightly. He grabs blindly for purchase and finds none even as a rock tears his palm to shreds. His calf is gashed open as another wave slams them into the face of the cliff. _

_ The arms slip away completely. He is so, so cold....  _

~~~~~~

“No!”

His own voice wakes him as he sits bolt upright, his hands scrabbling at the bedcovers. He draws in a breath that is too large, causing his trachea to revolt and him to dissolve into a coughing fit, rough hacks tearing from his chest as he tries to breathe between them. 

“Hannibal! Hannibal!” A warm hand closes around his bicep and squeezes until it’s almost painful, grounding him. Dimly, he begins to register his surroundings as the coughing subsides; Will is next to him. They are in their bed, in their house, in Buenos Aires. All of his wounds have long since closed, and there is no water in his lungs. 

Most importantly, he is warm, and Will’s arms are tight around him from where he had moved to sit behind him against the headboard. It takes a minute for Hannibal to realize that the vibration he feels in Will’s chest is just Will murmuring to him in his native Cajun French, the syllables rough and thick as they fall from his lips. 

Hannibal lets himself drift as he cautiously relaxes back into Will, listening to Will tell him  _ in and out _ . The foyer of his palace greets him as he detaches himself from his body, the skeleton mosaic on the floor glistening under the firelight. He wanders, meandering over Paris, Florence, Baltimore, the estate he shared with his parents and Mischa, briefly. White light catches his eye. A door in one of the deepest parts of his mind palace is almost off its hinges. Snowflakes scatter over the hallway, and he can hear the wind howling. It’s almost enough to hide a thin, pitiful wail. 

The door slams shut and he turns on his heel down yet another vast hallway to an ascending spiral staircase, which becomes fainter and fainter as he retreats into the real world. Will speaking to him in English shakes him completely out of his reverie. 

“Hmm?” he hums questioningly. Will nuzzles against the side of his neck, his breath hot against his collarbone.

“I asked if you were back with me. I guess I have my answer now.” He squeezes Hannibal tightly to his chest, knowing how pressure relaxes him. Hannibal doesn’t say anything. He just relishes in the contact, listening to the movements of the late night traffic outside and the warmth of Will against him. A sudden dip in the mattress turns his attention to their two Borzois Samael and Abbi, who had seen it fit to join them on the bed. Abbi takes up residence on Will’s vacated pillow, while Samael curls up under the bend of Will’s knee. He absently reaches out and scratches Abbi behind her ears, fingers tangling in her silky fur. 

“Where were you, Sweetheart?” Will asks him after a while, moving his hands to link together over the raised scar tissue on his stomach and pressing a kiss into the pulse point in his neck, gently sucking at the delicate skin. Hannibal sighs into the touch.

“The Atlantic,” he says. 

Will takes his right hand in his, gently tracing the healed gashes crisscrossing over the lines of his palm. 

“Were you cold?”

“Yes.” 

“Are you cold now?” 

“Only a little.” 

At his answer, Will shoos Abbi and Samael off the bed and pulls the thick quilt up closer, wrapping himself and Hannibal in its warm embrace. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve had nightmares,” Will muses. “Did something happen when you were out?” It is a thinly veiled reference to one of Hannibal’s solo hunts while Will was engrossed in a particularly big job at the docks. Hannibal shook his head. 

“It was different this time. I was in a pond or a lake at first. It was warm. And it was almost  _ comforting _ to be drowned. I felt like I had never known such peace before.” He pauses, running his thumb over Will’s pointer finger. “You were the one pulling me down.”

Will inhales and exhales deeply against him before nibbling on his ear lobe. 

“At the risk of sounding like you, Dr. Lecter, how did that make you feel?” 

“I felt full. I felt like I could fade away and be the happiest man in all creation.”

“Hmmmm,” Will hums, linking his fingers together on Hannibal’s stomach again. “When did it change to the ocean,  _ mon amour _ ?” The French is in the lilted cadence borne of the Louisiana backwaters, the twang underlying the phrase unmistakable. It breaks through his Person Suit like a knife through flesh. 

“I noticed that it was wrong.” 

Will huffs into his shoulder, an obvious laugh hidden in his exhale. 

“Well, there’s your problem,  _ cher _ . You think too much. Even in these infernal dreams of yours.” Will’s teeth worry into the already purpling skin over Hannibal’s jugular, the slight pinching sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. He squirms back into Will again, dropping his head back against his shoulder to bear the entire expanse of his neck. Will pulls away after cementing the bruise on his neck, choosing instead to kiss him firmly on the temple. “You need to sleep, Hannibal. I can tell you’re exhausted. We can talk more in the morning.” 

Hannibal doesn’t make a move one way or the other, his eyes fluttering shut and his head remaining on Will’s shoulder. Will takes the hint and moves them both down the bed until they are stretched out on their sides, their hips slotted together and the quilt still wrapped around them. Will is plastered to his back, a palm possessively resting over the scar of the healed gunshot wound and his forehead pressed against the back of his neck. 

Hannibal gives a quiet gasp as he feels Will start to work another bruise into his skin, latching on to one of the protruding knobs of his spine and lightly sucking. The hand moves from his stomach up to his shoulder and stokes gently up and down his arm, nails just barely digging in along its path. 

“ _ Mylimasis _ , you’re teasing me,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how you expect me to sleep with you assaulting me like this.” He shifts his hips into Will’s to drive his point home. Will only chuckles quietly, but he does stop sucking and nipping at his flesh. 

“Go to sleep, Baby. I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Hannibal huffs but stops squirming, pulling Will’s arm tightly around him instead. He lets himself be lulled by the warm, heady weight of Will behind him and the soft, barely there tickles of the butterfly kisses being pressed into his shoulders. 

“Never leave me?” he mumbles, before he drifts completely off. The arm around him tightens. 

“Never.” 

He dreams of roaring fireplaces, luxurious bedclothes, warm bodies entwined. He does not dream of the sea again.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy oh boy did I manage to write this whole fic in under 24 hours? Yes I did, and I'm proud of myself. Also, I cannot get the idea of Hannibal loving Borzois out of my head so here you go. Of course he had to name one after Lucifer's angel name because he's a fruit.


End file.
